


A Possibility

by SomedayTheSky



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Communication, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Morning After, Mutual Pining, One Shot, POV First Person, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 20:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomedayTheSky/pseuds/SomedayTheSky
Summary: In which Grantaire works out what exactly happened last night.





	A Possibility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BadassIndustries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/gifts).



> In hopes of returning the favor.

 

It takes considerable effort to force my eyelids open, but something in his tone of voice strikes me. It’s insistent, hard. I grab onto it fast and let it pull.

"You don’t even remember, do you, Grantaire? I knew you wouldn’t.” He doesn't bother trying to keep the edge from his voice, leaning back in the stiff desk chair across the small room.

There are a few plausible reasons why I could be alone in his bed right now, and none of them reflect very well on me. But he’s never reacted like this to any of them.

“It’s okay, darling.” He closes his eyes, holds a hand out palm down like he’s making a point. “Don’t look so worried.”

I think he’s mocking me with the _darling_ , but I deserve to be mocked, so I curl my knees into my chest and take it. "I did something stupid, didn’t I?”

"Why did you want to—? Why’d it even occur to you to—?” I'm not sure if he means to raise his voice again, but he does, and it throws me.

I ignore the ache behind my eyes and sit up very slowly, unable to resist cursing under my breath. There’s a cup of water set out on the nightstand, but when I reach for it, I find his cravat is wrapped around my fingers, clenched tight in my fist.

He frowns, observing the way I slowly unwind it. “Answer me. Why did you want to?”

By now I've worked out a vague memory of collapsing with my head against his chest and his hands in my hair. He describes a world without shame, and when he says it softly enough, I almost believe him. The tomorrow he fights for is a little bit different when it’s just for my ears. How could anyone not get addicted? I’m really no better than him in terms of pursuing impossible futures that had probably better be left alone. “Oh, shit. I had no idea you felt… I guess we don’t talk about it, but…” But how could we? “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll stop.”

“That's not at all what I want.”

“Well, what _do_ you want?”

It seems like he’s trying to answer, but doesn’t know how. “Anything other than politics and I fall apart.” He looks away, frustrated with himself.

“You’re fine,” I say softly. “Take as long as you need.” It’s weird that his vulnerability is unfamiliar. We spend a lot of time lying about how we feel for people who are supposed to be close to each other; I only ever tell the truth when I’m in danger of losing his attention, and he only ever tells the truth… when he thinks he might lose me, I guess.

“I can’t only be cared about when you’re drunk out of your mind,” he says slowly, like he’s still thinking about it. “I'm so obviously humoring myself, Grantaire. I don’t want that.”

It's, like, six in the morning, I have a headache, and I’m currently resisting the urge to curl into a ball and start crying for no apparent reason. But none of that is his fault. “You’re what, dear?” The words fall out of my mouth before I really think to stop them. “Oh. Still alright if I call you that?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Sure.”

“Okay. Good. I mean… I’m happy.”

He nods awkwardly before remembering he has something to say. “You only ask for me when it’s easy to deny the next day. Because otherwise you think you’re broken.” He laces his fingers together. “But _I’m_ not broken.”

Well, of course. He’s beautiful in a way that is not conducive to any kind of guilt. He cannot hold my worst inclinations, which is why he could never love me back. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m…” He’s really struggling to get through to something. “I’m frustrated because… everything I say to you is genuine, but you’re just drunk. I like pretending you’re interested. But it’s just pretending.”

“If you ever realize that you’re in love with me, you can just say it. You know that, right?”

“The thought of me makes you hate yourself, so no, I can’t say—”

“That’s not—!” I don’t realize I’m crying until I hear my voice come out strained. I was about to lie. I disguise myself with irony, but deep down I don’t really know how I feel. “I do hate my thoughts about you. Okay? You would too if you knew how deep they go. You would never speak to me again.”

He comes over to me, each step painfully slow and deliberate. And it’s ridiculous, but I close my eyes because I know it’d be entirely justified if he just slapped me and walked away. But when his fingers are running through my hair, I don’t flinch, and I don’t doubt him, and I see the whole thing a bit more like how it actually is. He has a way of making people understand.

“I wouldn’t give up the privilege of being in your life for anything.”

 


End file.
